


making home

by urfriendlyneighborhoodpan



Category: Bleach
Genre: Aftermath, F/M, Family, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 05:17:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10734891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/urfriendlyneighborhoodpan/pseuds/urfriendlyneighborhoodpan
Summary: Mistakes can be made. It's the consequences that are the problem. (grimmnel)





	making home

**Author's Note:**

> Have had a lot of requests on tumblr, and they all kinda revolve around the same thing with this ship. Trying to work my way through them, but this prompt was the one that stood out.

“This was a mistake.”

What remains of the palace is scattered across a large span of land, filled in between by sand blown over haphazardly by desert storms. The building they’ve managed for their own had at one time belonged to some lowly servant, nowhere near the grandeur they had been accustomed to at their best. But better, they decide, than the alternative. There is a bed and a roof and clothes to pick from, four whole walls and doors with locks on them. It is so easy to forget these luxuries, and even easier to mourn them. The first couple of weeks had come and gone without incident, they scavenged for food during waking hours and kept to their sides of the single bed as they slept. Narrow as it was, the sliver of space between had remained uncrossed.

The breath in is profound, it shifts the very darkness around them. Every shadow leans into them, and then away as he sighs. It is far too warm in here, but he doesn’t bother unsticking his thigh from hers underneath the damp sheets.

“I won’t disagree with you on that,” he replies, voice hushed. It settles light over this strained atmosphere, hardly piercing the surface. “But let’s not start playing the blame game—I’ve seen it before, don’t try and deny it—this all came about equal parts because of you and me. No one’s more at fault.”

She waits a beat or two, and then yanks the sheets from her legs. “I’m gonna wash this off.”

There is a table in the corner, it cannot fit more than two people. There is a slender entrance way a few paces away that works as a kitchenette. It is mostly intact, a cool metal box and an area for keeping non-perishables. Very little counter space, flickering fluorescence, and a few drawers with metal utensils. The door leading outside latches fine, but there is no door for the bathroom. The shower is set directly in view of the bed, plastic white curtain and a simple slab of a mirror bolted to the wall. The sink is tall, the faucet never stops dripping.

The clothes formerly belonging to the lowly servant is large enough to fit him comfortably, but far too much fabric for her. She cannot distinguish which she’d been wearing, they’d been flung every which way in their haste to undress the other. She toes around until she hears him shift about in the bed, deciding to drop it for now. She doesn’t much like how the air feels on her skin, it scatters coolly over her back and her arms and her legs. She doesn’t think about him staring after her, switching on the hot water and rummaging through some cupboards for some soap.

“Why don’t I join you?” he pipes up, as she’s stepping over the raised tile bordering the shower space. “We’d save some water. You never know how much is left in the reserves.”

“Let’s not make this a thing,” she says, yanking the curtain shut behind her. The water falls over her like a whip, she hisses quietly before pointing out, “The water pressure might be what’s putting us at risk here.”

“I dug around a couple days ago, found a few parts that might help with that. No tools though.” His voice is coming nearer, she tugs a section of hair to watch the water soak through. She doesn’t glance up when he tugs the curtain open again. “Just let this happen.”

“We’re not doing this. Once is quite enough.”

“How about this,” he says, bracing against the curtain railing. “We’ll reset, as soon as we wake up. This never happened—it never will—we’re just two people trying to survive all over again.”

She considers this, folding her arms over her chest. It was a lapse in judgement, this hunger had arisen within them and what once could’ve been sated by the burn of blood on their hands could not be sated now. They had clawed and torn at one another until there’d been space for no more; the water trails over every bruise and scrape he had unwittingly left behind. Her gaze flickers over him, she has left whole lines of red where her nails had dug in and dragged out. These dark splotches on his throat. Angry marks that easily outnumber the ones on her.

And still, there is so much left over she hasn’t quite worked out yet. This flickering energy still bright enough to burn over.

When she finds his eyes, his teeth graze over his lower lip.

She tips her head, and he’s already closing the space between them.

.x.

True to word, he does not make another advance toward her. The weeks go on without incident, every day they spend scrounging through the rubble for some way out of this. Now and again they come across another one of their kind struggling for the same thing they are. But they return empty handed each time, falling back into the rhythm of things. There are whole sections they have not reached yet, he mumbles something or another and she supposes that once another bed is made available, and another four walls, and another roof to sleep under, she will not see him nearly as often.

“He left this here,” he says, emptying out this sack onto the corner table. “Said we could contact him if anything gets too dicey.”

“Don’t touch it,” she replies, tossing fresh sheets onto their shared bed. “I never want to see that man again, so long as I’m still breathing.”

“The only reason you can stay sane is ‘cause of that thing on your arm,” he points out, but doesn’t touch the device on the table. “Not saying I’m defending him.”

“I’ve more than paid him back for that.”

He turns his hand, palm up. “Then we won’t make contact.”

Midway through the week after the next, she wakes with a start. Every muscle in his face is slack, she figures it’s been a couple hours since shuteye. Her skin feels cold, though he’s been very generous with the sheets. She swallows around the dryness in her mouth, and then frees her legs to swing them off the bed. The floor feels like ice against her feet, she stumbles toward the bathroom and only just makes it to the toilet. Sleek metal, entirely mismatched. Her fingers stick to the outer edges of the bowl and everything twists up inside of her, the entirety of her body heaving as she retches. Every scrap comes rushing out, bitter on her tongue.

Once, twice, three times and he appears at the doorway with a sleepy scowl.

“What the hell—what’s going on with you?” She almost doesn’t hear him, any attempt made at responding to him is lost all over again. “You sound like you’re dying, what is this?”

“I—I’m—” she mumbles, and it’s like she’s lost control of her muscles. She glances to find her fingers trembling. She folds inward, and now nothing’s coming out. Her head is pounding. “I—don’t know—”

Everything seizes up inside of her, she locks up and squeezes her eyes shut and for a second she swears it’s one of the most painful things she’s ever felt.

A too-hot hand briefly drifts across the back of her neck, gathering up her hair. “What, did you overeat?”

She clutches at the fabric over her stomach. The meal had run late, whatever he had managed to drag back for them had tasted just fine to her during. But maybe she had overestimated her appetite—lately, she has been increasing her intake. “It’s… I’ve just been…hungrier. I must have pushed myself more than I should have.”

This isn’t a common phenomenon. She can’t remember the last time her body has done this—too much of a bad thing in the system always led to a reaction, most usually involuntary. It stands to reason his response is, “Body knows better than you do, let it clean itself out.”

She coughs, gripping onto the bowl for dear life. When the contractions in her middle let up, she pushes herself back. Her head lolls against his grip, the fingers in her hair loosen immediately and she slumps momentarily into his knees. He leans over her to flush the mess, and before she can fall completely onto her back he stoops down to hook his arms under hers. He doesn’t entirely lift her off the ground, more drags her into the shower and leaves her awkwardly half sitting, half sprawled on the tiles.

“You look like hell,” he says, crossing the room for some towels.

She groans, flinching when he suddenly switches the shower on. The water is, for the barest second, ice cold. He curses around an apology and quickly turns some knobs until it’s bearable. “My clothes,” she protests hoarsely, turning her head away.

“Meant to bring this up,” he dismisses, crouching down to gather up the hem of her shirt. “That old hunk of concrete by the south sector used to belong to one of ours—can’t tell who. Torn between Cuatro and Primero. If it’s the former, there’s no chance in hell anything left over is gonna fit you. The latter, well. You won’t be any better than you are right now, but at least you have a better selection.”

He tugs the hem up toward her ribs, and then folds the fabric back over her breasts. There’s only a two second warning, her stomach clenches and she folds over. He doesn’t even get the chance to yank his hands away before the rest rushes out. It tastes so bitter coming out, it turns to spit but not before it starts to feel like fire scraping out her throat.

“That’s a fucking sight,” he sighs, her hand is gripping his arm tight enough her own knuckles hurt. It’s all over his arm, past the wrist. He leaves his fingers open, she’s almost impressed by his calm. “Those stains aren’t getting out that shirt. How much did you eat?”

Not much, in all honesty. Whatever’s left comes in thin, painful strings.

As soon as she releases his arm he rinses off and then tugs his shirt over his head. He pulls the hem of hers down, takes hold of the collar, and then tears clean down. He frees her arms from the sleeves and hoists her up by her elbows. “You can keep mine, I can go without a shirt.”

“What a surprise,” she manages, lifting her hips as he works her pants off. “I’m feeling better—what are you doing?”

“Detox.”

.x.

“No.”

“Well, that’s no way to greet an old friend.”

The days have begun to grow sluggish, with the amount of food she can manage to hold down anymore she can only exert so much energy. It cuts her productivity by more than half, has her crawling back into bed earlier and earlier each time. She sees less of him, out like a light before he returns and waking just as he’s heading out again. She misses two meals, just like that, and suddenly everything comes to a screeching halt.

She manages an hour outside with her cheek pressed to a cool slab of concrete before she’s stumbling back again, and there she finds a most unpleasant sight. Sitting there, all too casually, at the tiny table shoved up into the furthest corner. Legs crossed, chin in his hand, a slimy smile stretched thin across his face.

“You are no friend of mine,” she says coolly, and his smile widens ever so slightly. “Why are you here?”

“A little bird told me you weren’t feeling so well,” Urahara explains, leaning over to tip off his hat onto the table. “I was given the impression I was called as a last ditch effort.”

She glances away, swallowing thickly.

“You certainly look worse for wear,” he comments offhandedly.

“I don’t want your help,” she mutters, tugging at the fabric over her abdomen. It feels like she’s swallowed lead.

“It doesn’t very much seem like you have a choice,” he dismisses, settling back in his seat. “Why don’t you sit down? I’ve cleared my schedule for you.”

.x.

She’s sprawled across the bed by the time Grimmjow returns, his shirt bundled around some meat he’d managed to carve out of some poor beast. She can smell him from this distance and it’s rancid, unpleasant to the nose. She winces and turns her face toward the mattress, too drained to do much more. She doesn’t know how long she’s been laying here, time has decided to move much quicker now that this weight has been dropped on her.

“You were looking kinda fucked up,” he says, moving into the kitchen to dump the meat in the sink. “I know you don’t like the man, but—”

“What’s done is done,” she replies, voice muffled. “You don’t owe me an explanation. There are more important things to be discussing right about now.”

She hears him switch on the faucet to rinse the meat with, allowing her words to stew.

“I think I’m gonna need to relocate,” she says numbly, rolling onto her back. “This place—this world—isn’t fit for me anymore.”

“What are you talking about?” He’s standing with his shoulder leaned against the doorway, arms folded across his broad chest. His arms are spotted in blood, hair plastered to his temples and forehead with sweat, mouth pulled into a deep frown. There is more red than white on his pants, his boots are the most pristine things on him. “What’d he say to you? You look all pale.”

She considers the ceiling for a moment. “Nothing of importance. At least nothing that involves you,” she sighs, shutting her eyes.

“So you’re leaving,” he states, voice drawing near. “Are you that sick?”

“Does it matter?”

“Look, I’m not trying to stop you. I’m just trying to get the facts straight here. You said you wanted to rebuild this place from the ground up, it sounds a lot like you’re willing to give that up.”

“I’m not saying I’ll be gone forever—just long enough I can take care of this little problem and set myself back on track.” She rubs a hand over her face. “Besides, this way you can have a place for yourself. I’m sure by the time I recover from—this—you’ll have found something more comfortable. If not, I’ll certainly be able to find my own place alone.”

“You act as if I give a flying fuck about living with you, what’s got you all weird? What’s this _thing_ you gotta take care of? Why you being all shifty?”

“You’re making something out of nothing, it’s just a sickness—”

“Don’t try and backtrack, Nelliel,” he cuts her off. “I heard what you said, you’re talking like whatever the fuck’s going on with you is… I don’t know, entirely _separate_ from you.”

“You misheard, then,” she smooths over. “Urahara Kisuke tells me he can cure my ailment easily, but I’ll need time to recover. Somewhere stable, with plenty of medicine on hand. What I’m getting at is that I’ll need to relocate to the Human World to stay with that…man, until I am fully recovered.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. She hears him move away, the faucet switch off, the small apartment grow deafeningly quiet. She counts her breaths, on the fifth or sixth she feels a strange shift in the air. She hardly has a chance to process this before she feels the bed jolt, his body fall onto hers. She scrambles to push him off, but the thought alone is exhausting enough. His fingers wrap around her wrists idly, and she drops the effort entirely.

“What are you doing?” she asks, sounding more inconvenienced than anything.

“I’m just wondering what the fucking deal is,” he says conversationally, right into her ear. “I’m busting my ass feeding you, cleaning up after you—you looked like you were dying, you know that? Who the fuck d’you think was keeping you alive up till now? You act as if it’s not my business to know what’s wrong.”

She doesn’t want to answer, for how repulsive he smells now she can’t deny the odd sense of comfort this instills in her. The warmth of his body, and his breath, and the way his voice rumbles through her. She squeezes her eyes shut, and tries very hard not to soak it all in. “It’s…” she begins, turning her face away when he lifts his head. “He called it an anomaly.”

His eyes are too blue, too intent. They cut past the fat of the lie and leave her reeling, she doesn’t know how she thought she could fool him before.

“That time you and I…you know,” she mumbles, unwilling to say it.

He’s not so delicate. “When we fucked.”

“I wasn’t—we weren’t going to acknowledge it.”

“Suppose the circumstances demand we do.”

She stares past him, at the ceiling. Or at the frayed hair above his ear. “I’m pregnant.”

“You’re shitting me.”

.x.        

“See, that just doesn’t make any sense,” he says, dragging his fingers through his hair. He’s lying beside her on their tiny shared bed, he smells of sweat and blood and whatever else has gotten itself stuck on his skin and she just wants to curl up and sleep for a few hours. This silence has gone and stretched itself thin between them, and she’s not sure what to make of it. If it’ll bleed itself into them the way he has into her. “These things just don’t happen.”

“That’s why it’s an anomaly,” she sighs, as he drops his arms back to his sides. “That’s why I wanna fix it—there’s no telling what will come of this.”

Grimmjow does not speak for a moment, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling in smooth lines. When he turns his head to look at her, she has taken to tracing the lines of _his_ face. Smooth, hardly there imperfections. The angle of his nose, the curve of his mouth, the flecks of hair too thin to catch the color of. His lashes aren’t long, but they’re dark and defined and they make his eyes far too bright. Too sharp.

It’s hard to look away now, and she doesn’t know why.

“Don’t call me sentimental,” he warns, and she snaps her mouth shut. His hand lifts to touch her face, almost gentle. “But aren’t you wondering the same thing I am?”

“Let’s not allow our curiosity to get the best of us,” she replies, and yet cannot bring herself to shake him off.

This is, for him, enough incentive to say, “Aren’t you wondering how this’ll play out?”

“It’ll be a monster,” she breathes, and swallows audibly when his thumb—roughened, calloused, sandpaper on her skin—drifts slightly. “It won’t be natural. This doesn’t happen, we cannot produce life. We as a people came about through devouring others, and this…this _thing_ …”

“Don’t you think us capable of evolution?” he asks, all too serious. “All things considered, you’re quite a powerful creature. Imagine combining us two, what it would mean—”        

“Are you honestly telling me,” she says, voice raising, “that you’re thinking about the—the _abilities_ this thing will have?”

“Don’t call me heartless, either,” he snaps, moving onto his side. “I’m talking about how far we, as a people, will have come if we were able to— _yes_ —produce life. Imagine what this would _do_. The ways we could grow.”

“That’s quite a progressive thought,” she allows, turning her head toward his shoulder. “I never thought you capable.”

“I’m only asking, on the off chance this is the only…anomaly we will be able to produce, that you consider not…fixing it.”

“You’re not in your right mind,” she scoffs, moving to sit up.

He presses one hand to her lower abdomen, pushing her back down firmly. “This _child_ will surely be a step in _some_ direction. Whether it’s right or wrong, we won’t know unless we allow this to run its course.”

“This was a mistake,” she counters, angling her face away as he lowers down beside her.

“That it most definitely was,” he agrees, pushing his hand under her shirt to feel the cool skin of her stomach. It sends a strange spark up her spine, makes her teeth lock together and her fingers curl tight into the sheets. “But it was entirely natural.”

.x.

“We’ll give it another week,” she says, wringing her hair out from the shower. “Then we’ll need to go to the Human World for some supplements and extra materials. Urahara Kisuke volunteered some help to build a home for…our child.”

“That must taste bitter on the tongue.”

“We’ll have to cease our activities for now until we’re safely settled in,” she disregards him. “We don’t know how long this pregnancy will take. If it’s anything like a human’s, it will span an entire nine months. But, since you and I copulated about two or so months ago, we have about seven or six left.”

He sweeps his damp hair back with one hand, sparing her a glance. “Don’t think staying another week is a good idea. You’re already starving yourself as is. I’m assuming the kid needs food.”

“I will not subject myself to that man’s…antics any sooner than I need to.” She tugs a clean shirt on, and then searches around for some pants. “If I can put it off, I will.”

She jolts, his arms coil round her middle from behind and his chin rests on her shoulder. For a brief moment, she nearly jerks her elbow back into his ribs. He smiles smoothly at her reflection. “You surprise me, Nelliel,” he murmurs, hands drifting across her belly. “I thought you’d be more nurturing.”

He’s still dripping from head to toe, it soaks through the back of her shirt. She twists away, brushing his arms off. “Let’s not do this. I get to decide what we do or don’t do with it—with—with our child. I want to wait another week before we have to deal with _him_.”

“I’ll try and understand the animosity.”

.x.

They go two days, he finds her curled up behind a slab of concrete no more than a mile out and decides that’s as far as they’re getting. There’s not much to pack, a few articles of clothing they can’t tell apart and a pillow she’s become irrationally attached to. From the doorway, it’s a measly little closet space with dust collecting at the corners. It’s a given they won’t be coming back to this place; somebody, at some point, will take it as their own.

Urahara Kisuke meets them on the other side with a sharp smile and a tipped hat, ushering them forth into his home. It’s not much, there’s a room somewhere on the other side and a closet full of clothes that fit the angles of her body too well for comfort. She settles into bed that night after a light meal and tries not to flinch when Grimmjow places a hand on her lower abdomen.

Nothing visibly grows for weeks, but they tell her there is most certainly something there.

“Human technology is a wonder,” she comments idly more than once, flipping through the thick sheets of glossy paper placed right into her hands. The images are black and white, she almost can’t pick out the image. But there is a face, and a hand, and she feels a strange weight settle at the pit of her stomach. “It can see what I can’t.”

“I wonder whose genes are the more dominant,” he murmurs, searching perhaps for the angle of a nose. The shape of a jaw. “I want your skin.”

“That’s a disturbing thought.”

“What do you hope for?” he asks, regardless. “A boy, or a girl?”

“I doubt it matters.” She hands him the photos, stepping away to smooth the creases from her shirt. “We can’t control what comes.”

Living in this man’s home demands recompense, Grimmjow’s labor for her comfort. Nothing particularly tiresome, only the humiliation of playing the role of lowly servant. He is not above complaining, but as the swell of her belly becomes more and more prominent he takes to holding his tongue. She is well fed here, with the proper equipment on hand to aid her when the time comes. Things run quicker than, they say, a human pregnancy. And so time, they come to understand, is of the essence.

.x.

The first sign of movement within her comes in the dead of night, his fingers spread over her skin more so out of habit. He jolts before she has a chance to, pressing her onto her back to sweep his hand over her stomach carefully.

“Where’d you go, you little fucker?” he mutters, prodding along her sides. She sighs, not bothering to stop him. “You can’t hide in there forever.”

“There won’t be enough space to, soon,” she says, promptly taking his wrist and guiding it toward her ribs. It’s only a flutter, maybe a hand. Maybe a foot. She doesn’t know how to distinguish yet. But he presses down all the same, breath shallow. “Urahara says they’ll be big, since neither you nor I are small.”

“I hope they’re bigger than me,” he murmurs, and it catches her off guard. “I hope they’ll be stronger than the both of us combined.”  

“You’re incorrigible,” she chastises, and jolts when he shifts down her body to press his mouth to the spot just underneath her ribs. Not quite a kiss, but too tender to be anything else.

“Come out,” he whispers, and it’s clear he is not speaking to her. “I want to meet you now. I want to give you a name.”

Some strange rise of emotion comes over her, it leaves her skin cool but her chest undeniably warm. She puts her fingers in his hair and she can’t decide whether to pull him in closer or push him off altogether. His eyes, they flicker over until they lock on hers. Intent, wholly understanding. He presses his mouth against her skin once more, and this time she can’t take it for anything else.

“You’ve got a glow about you,” he says, and then places another kiss on the swell of her breast. “I don’t want them to have your eyes, though. I don’t want two pairs of the same look—you’re too much alone.”

Her breath trembles, his hands drift over her sides once more to settle where her waist had once been. This child, it has deformed her. There is no reason or rhyme anymore, no clear distinction from one end to the other. Her feet are swollen in the morning and she wears his shirts now, she has to waddle when she walks. She wonders if she’ll ever go back to normal, if she’ll ever recognize her body in the mirror again.

His mouth closes over hers for a few long moments, she feels his tongue for a split second before she turns her head from him.

“Our _child_ is inside of me,” she hisses, heart pounding inexplicably. “They can _feel_ , too.”

“That’s a fucking thought,” he replies evenly, settling one hand on her belly again. “Tell me something, now that we’re on the subject.”

The house is still, their voices soften to whispers as a cricket’s song begins from somewhere outside. He’s staring right at her face, unabashed.

“If we’re raising this kid together, which I’m assuming is implied,” he says, smoothing one calloused thumb across her navel—now flat, stretched tight. “Does that make us a couple?”

She holds his gaze, half unwilling to give. “That, too, is implied.”

There’s a brief flicker of a smile on his face, she hardly catches it before his mouth finds hers again. It only lasts a second or so, his tongue swiping over her lower lip as he pulls away. “That’s that,” he says, tugging her shirt back over her stomach. “No backing out now.”

.x.

“Let’s go back,” she says, watching him from the porch as he sweeps. The sun falls over him in an almost alien fashion, it paints him far too bright for her liking. His hair an eyesore, where the moonlight colors it prettily. He huffs, swiping his bangs back. “Let’s go back, as soon as the baby’s born.”

This is no place for them, the air tastes funny on the way in and every day passes in a flurry. Too quick. It leaves her feeling weightless, as if she’ll lose her footing at any given moment. She twists her fingers into the skirt they have provided her and suddenly she doesn’t want to be in her own skin. Those children, they stare as if she doesn’t belong. Every day, it becomes very much apparent that she does not. She meets his gaze from across the way, and it feels as if he knows exactly what she’s thinking.

“Let’s leave this place,” she whispers, hands going clammy. “Let’s go home .”

.x.

**Author's Note:**

> Literally it was just "Grimmnel pregnancy," but I don't like simple with this pair.


End file.
